


You Inherit The Flames

by Wayward_WLW (Parker_Haven_Wuornos)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking cycles of abuse, Canonical Character Death, Changing the Ending, Episode Rewrite: s14e18, Forgiveness, Gen, Listen if this show was good this is how the episode would have ended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29102553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parker_Haven_Wuornos/pseuds/Wayward_WLW
Summary: A monster killed his mom, and he has to kill the monster. It’s baked into him, as much a part of him as his eyes or the need to protect Sammy. We kill the thing that killed our mom.The family business.
Relationships: Castiel & Jack Kline & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	You Inherit The Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! The title is from Adam Raised a Cain by Bruce Springsteen, a song Dean would listen to and either completely miss the point or completely lose his mind. Comments are much appreciated!

The car rolls to an uncomfortable, unstable stop, and Dean is already out the door. Some distant part of his mind knows it would be worried about the car most days, but he can’t find the feeling, or even the fully formed thought.

It’s all buried under rage. Murderous, terrified, righteous rage.

_He killed my mom. That thing killed my mom. I left him alone with my mom and he killed her._

Jack’s name is a knife; he won’t even let himself think it. It isn’t Jack anymore. It can’t be. He can’t reconcile _the thing that killed mom_ with _Jack_. His kid.

He doesn’t let himself think too hard about it. He can’t. _You’re overthinking, Dean._ His father’s voice is clear and sharp in his mind, even decades after the first time he’d faced a shifter with his father. He’d said, naively, that the thing was almost too human to kill.

_You’re overthinking, Dean. It’s not human, it has to die._

And so Dean hadn’t thought, and he’d shot it in the heart and it had died, one less monster to worry about.

And now it was just the same. A monster killed his mom, and he has to kill the monster. It’s baked into him, as much a part of him as his eyes or the need to protect Sammy. We kill the thing that killed our mom.

The family business.

But his mind keeps unhelpfully reminding him of silly little things this monster has said, and the nice things he does, and the fact that when he smiles he looks like Cas. The memories are like tacks, small and sharp.

Dean makes the pain turn to rage, rage at the thing that ruined all that, ruined the happy comfort he’d been imagining for himself, for his family. It’s over. He thinks he’s known it was over since his mom didn’t pick up the phone the first time.

He’s sprinting towards the blast site, barely aware of the trees that blur past and the ones that scratch his face, tearing into the skin. He wonders if it hurts, and if that hurt is fueling his fury as much as the rest of his hurts are.

Snow crunches under his feet, he’s getting close now. He’ll kill it. He’ll kill him. He’ll find a way and then it will be over. When it’s over he can

But he doesn’t know what he’ll do when it’s over, because when it’s over she’ll still be gone and he’ll have to go back to the bunker, now two people emptier.

_Kill the thing that killed mom. Kill the monster._

He gets to the clearing and skids to a clumsy stop. Jack is in the middle, huddled on the ground over the body.

His mother’s body.

She looks like she’s sleeping, like the time she’d dozed off on his shoulder when they were driving home from a hunt.

Her hair spills over Jack’s arm, and Dean notices that it’s almost the same color as Jack’s. He thinks about her soft smile, her hand pressed against the side of his face.

_Kill the thing that killed mom._

Jack looks up at him.

His eyes aren’t glowing; they’re red and puffy, rough splotches against illness-pale skin. His shoulders shake, jostling his mom’s body so her head rolls a little.

He doesn’t say anything.

Dean reaches for his rage, gripping it and trying to pull it over his shoulders, a heavy coat he can wear, one that’s too big, an heirloom. Wearing it will make him feel small, but it will get him through this moment.

_Kill the thing that killed mom._

He has an angel blade; he has his fury. He thinks he can do this.

Jack doesn’t move. His eyes flick to the blade, but he’s completely still other than the single tear that slides down his cheek.

Sam calls his name, but Dean is running, running towards Jack, on his knees, ready for whatever pain Dean will deal.

The thumbtack memories are back, pricking his mind with each step that takes him to Jack.

Jack imitating him drinking beer and asking about the bible. 

His father, drunk and shouting about being a soldier, fighting a war for his mother.

Jack smiling over his first fake FBI badge, calling himself a hunter.

His father handing him a shotgun, telling him to protect Sammy or else he’d end up like mom.

Jack holding out a book to ask Dean a question about some lore.

He isn’t running anymore. He’s standing above Jack, blade raised, poised to strike.

It falls from his hand.

He falls to his knees.

Gently, so gently, he takes his mom from Jack’s arms and lays her on the ground.

And then he reaches for Jack, and pulls him into a hug. One hand presses against Jack’s hair, maybe a little too hard.

“I forgive you,” He says.

_You kill the thing that killed your mom._

Dean ignores his father’s voice, tinny like a bad recording. He will not ruin Jack. He will not let him live forever with guilt and self-loathing. 

Jack’s arms are weak and shaking when they reach around him. Dean holds on all the more tightly, because it seems like Jack can’t.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says.

“Me too, kid.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you.”

There’s nothing else to say.

Later, he will mourn his mother, properly. They will burn her on a hunter’s pyre. They will sit at their kitchen table and eat her favorite foods, and look at all the pictures they have of her, they will tell stories until the edges of their grief are blunted.

And Jack will be there, because it’s his grief too, and losing Jack will not bring Mary back, and choosing revenge won’t ease the pain, but maybe helping Jack will.

“I love you,” He says again, because he knows his son can’t hear it enough.


End file.
